


Painting Pictures on the Glass

by HerbalSpecialTea



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Burlesque Dancer!Mollymauk, F/M, M/M, Modern AU, Molly owns a shop, Rating may change for later chapters, Urban Fantasy I guess?, Warmage!Caleb, Yasha bakes there too, don't worry the ocs aren't shipped with anyone, fight club au?, there is a fight club
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 12:05:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14260617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerbalSpecialTea/pseuds/HerbalSpecialTea
Summary: Caleb Widogast is not a good man. He has hurt many people, and he just wants a little peace for once in his life, and maybe a place to work out his troubles against others in better physical condition than he is.Mollymauk is a seller of fine New Age wares by day and sometimes a dancer by night.Or, the Burlesque/Fight Club AU nobody asked for.





	Painting Pictures on the Glass

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work here on Ao3 and also my first work for this fandom. Beta'd by the lovely myriadofcolors37. Title from the song Winter Bird by Aurora.

_If the problem was only the smoke and heat filling his lungs, he would have been perfectly alright. If the problem was only that he couldn’t feel his left leg, or half of the fingers on his left hand, he would have been fine. Great, even. But the real problem was that he couldn’t tell where bodies ended and the earth began. He couldn’t tell if what his boots ground underfoot was ash from the trees, the buildings, or human flesh. He couldn’t tell if the ringing in his ears was from his own hoarse screaming or the dying howls of the townsfolk around him or the cannon blasts. He couldn’t distinguish the feeling of his blood boiling from the heat of the flames on his good hand or the ones licking off the surrounding crumbled buildings._

_Everywhere around him was too bright too hot too loud too painful such agony make it stop did I do this it was me wasn’t it oh_ gods _no how could I have let this happen—_

_Crying. He could hear loud crying from a building to his left. What was left of the rickety wooden doorframe was searing when he leaned on it, and he caught the scent of the burning fabric of his uniform before pushing inside. The door led to the kitchen where beams of the ceiling had already to begun to collapse and scorch the floor. He could see a once beautiful vase of flowers on the windowsill and watched as the edges withered away to ash. The crying grew louder as he crossed under the fallen boards into the living space which was already littered with debris. Immediately his eyes fell on a small child in the corner. He couldn’t have been more than four years old, big eyes that reflected the firelight in their glassy wet depths. He reached for Caleb then. His lips moved as Caleb reached back for him._

_Then the sky fell._

 

As if mocking him, the day broke only to bring a steady rain on the glass of the balcony door of the second-story apartment. Cursing, he rose from where he had (in all of his attempts to avoid it) fallen asleep slumped against the half-unpacked cardboard moving boxes in the corner of the small kitchen by the stove. The man groaned at the stiffness in his back and shuddered as he briskly rubbed his arms and tried to avoid coughing at the sharp chill in the air, almost punching the thermostat in frustration before rummaging through a box in the living area and yanking on a hoodie.

 

Caleb still couldn’t understand why _she_ had ever wanted to move here. He started and quickly brushed the thought away lest it bring more like it. Surveying the room, he decided the best course of action was to make a pot of coffee and busy himself with unpacking. A soft yowl shook him from his contemplations and he bent to rub the ears of the tabby cat at his feet, murmuring to him before preparing a bowl of dry food while the coffee trickled in the background. A brush of ginger bangs from his eyes and a glance out the window revealed little as his breath fogged up the glass. A dreary day for an equally dreary human.

 

Hours of shifting items to their new locations in the small space seemed to keep his body busy but did little to ease his wandering mind. His clothing accounted for only one medium-sized box, and compared to his vast personal library, which was quickly strewn over the couch, coffee table, and bookshelves, it was a sorry sight to see the five shirts and three pairs of pants hung neatly next to his long coat. Faintly he could hear a voice protesting at his lack of warm garments besides the sweatshirt he had donned that she bought for him the Christmas before—

 

The last four boxes he stared at for an unknown period of time, unwilling to open them. He shook his head and moved them as quickly as he could to the bedroom next to his, closing the door gently. He would not think of her that way, not today. She wanted this to be a new start for them both. She had wanted to help him run from his past just like she was running from hers, after her father had died next to him. _It was all my fault._  

 

With a sob threatening to rise in the back of his throat, he made his way back to the living space in search of the comfort he knew Frumpkin could bring. _He’s all I have left of her._ But the cat was nowhere to be seen, the balcony door slightly ajar as the rain tapped softly against the wood floor, clattering against the metal railing outside as a rumble of thunder shook the glass.

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

Mollymauk was used to all manner of folk perusing his shop: some searching for answers, some for gifts for inquisitive or spiritual friends, some for the fresh baked breads and pastries that rolled from Yasha’s hands to the ovens and finally to customers from open to closing. When one runs a ‘New Age’ store, a certain diversity to the crowd is to be expected and even encouraged. _Big crowds make for big business,_ he would respond to Yasha’s forever skeptical glances at the people wandering in throughout the day.

 

What he was not expecting was the soft dinging of the bell above the door but no one coming through at eye level, followed by a chirping meow from his feet. A large tabby cat appeared to be studying him with unbridled curiosity, reaching out to swat at the flowing fabric of Molly’s robe.

 

“And where did you come from? Barging into someone’s shop is quite rude, you know.” Contrary to his words, he reached down to scratch under its chin. The cat purred in response and launched itself into his lap and onto the counter, rubbing against his willing hands. A shiny tag on its blue collar read _Frumpkin_ , and he hummed.

 

“You’ve got quite a name, did you know that?” The only response was another purr as the cat settled with paws tucked under its stomach. “I’ve never seen you around before, but I suppose you’re welcome to stay as long as you don’t go into the kitchen. Hygiene and all.”

 

The fact that Frumpkin barely had a drop of water on him despite the relatively heavy rain did not go unnoticed, but Molly simply shrugged off any questions he may have had as he moved to tidy up the empty shop. It was early yet and the rain might drive away customers in the morning, but if it lightened up by midday, there was still the chance of business being quite good even on a chilly Friday afternoon where passersby might drift in from the cold, tempted by the comforting smell of baked goods and patchouli.

 

A few hours of sorting items and taking inventory— _have to order more of the revocation incense sticks_ —in near silence save for the occasional chirp of the cat left Molly with an overwhelming sense of boredom. Settling again in his chair behind the counter, he busied himself with shuffling, flipping, ignoring, and reshuffling the tarot deck he always kept on his person. Having apparently noticed the movement of Molly’s hands and the soft brushing together of the cards, Frumpkin blinked open his eyes, leaning out to sniff gingerly before deciding there was nothing worth his time. Yawning impossibly wide, the cat stood, stretched, turned in circles several times and finally flopped back down in the exact same place he had previously been.

 

There was a soft jingling as the bell above the door notified him of the entrance of a pair of people—at a glance, a young half-elven couple probably trying to warm up from the easing rainstorm. His usual greeting was subdued and the dark-haired female glanced at him sympathetically as she paced to survey the racks and bowls of crystals spread out on tables to his right.

 

Molly returned to his tarot cards, thumbing over the intricately painted gold and silver design on the maroon base. It had become a nervous habit to fiddle with them when he was bored or anxious, he realized, as he swiped the pad of his index finger over a particularly worn spot in the trinity knot at its center.

 

“Do you do readings?” The soft but firm voice of the female drew him from his contemplations and as he raised his eyes to meet her dark gaze, he smiled, flourishing his hand lavishly when he gestured to the deck now on the counter.

 

“Why of course. Have you ever had one done for you before?” She shook her head, brushing her long braid of hair behind her. Her male companion (it must be her brother, Molly amended as he observed the similarities in their facial structure: sharp noses, angular jaw, dark eyes and hair) scoffed slightly before returning his attention to the tome he’d been sifting through, titled _Death and the Afterlife_ (dull). “No problem at all! I can either do an open reading or a more specific one if you’ve a question in mind.”

 

“I.. don’t honestly know the difference,” she admitted.

 

“That’s perfectly alright. I can give you an example before we do one more tailored to your personal desires, if you like. Either arrangement is a standard three-card spread.”

 

Molly silently breathed a prayer as he reached below the counter for the half-burned white candle he kept there for these moments. To his patrons, he knew the quick and quiet movement of his lips and the smoothing of the soft woven violet-and-blue tapestry that covered the counter and the placing of the candle at its center before lighting it all felt very much like gesture of showmanship. To Molly, though, as with many things in his life, the process was ritualistic and necessary. Without the proper preparation for a public reading like this, he felt often as though he was disrespecting the deck and the power it held.

 

“This is a blessed space. The white candle will purify any negative energy. For this, I will cut the deck and have the cards facing myself. For your reading, I will have you cut it however you choose, and the cards will face you. This is necessary because in the event that any cards come up inverted, the meaning we can gather from them will change.” He motioned for her to join him behind the counter and noted her uneasy and troubled demeanor out of the corner of his eye while he shuffled the cards before softly placing the top three side by side onto the tapestry.

 

He watched her reaction as he did with every client when he turned, smiling pleasantly and tilting his head just so to ensure the jewelry in his horns clinked softly before glancing down at the card in his fingers. His lips briefly fell into a hard line, though regained their mock-confidence just as quickly. The figure on its face was cloaked in black and facing away, surrounded by a dreary environment with several goblets strewn about. It was upside-down. This same card had come up in the past several readings he had done for himself.

 

“Ah, see? Had you been standing on the other side, this card would have appeared to be in the correct direction,” he stated jovially. “The inverted Five of Cups. Symbolically the Five of Cups stands for despair. Some people think that when cards come up inverted, it means they should be interpreted as the exact opposite of their face meaning. This isn’t always true, and it can be more beneficial to read the inverted card as a causation. Here, on its own, I would take it more likely to mean that the subject of the reading is or will be moving away from a state of despair or stagnation. But, I should think we would be better to see the others before drawing any conclusions. Best to have the whole picture.”

 

The second card he turned with much less zeal than the first, suddenly wary of the direction in which this reading was going. It depicted an angelic individual with red wings holding two cups between which a stream of water flowed. When he spoke this time, it was softer, and he felt the woman lean in close to him. She would think it was for effect, he hoped as he tried to swallow the bile rising in his throat. There was no such thing as coincidences, and he once again prayed, though this time asking— _begging—_ not to have to consider the same reading once again, let alone out loud.

 

“Temperance. It of course warns of moderation in all facets of life. However, it can also mean that a person needs to apply patience and a gentle approach to their method of reaching a goal.” She seemed to be waiting for him to say more, but when he didn’t she only nodded slightly.

 

At the flip of the final card, Molly’s hands were almost imperceivably trembling and he felt a bit sick to his stomach. “The Wheel of Fortune.” This was a confirmation for both of them, and his heart sank. “The outcome of the venture you seek to follow will be uncertain. Always expect to be surprised and remind yourself that you will never know everything in advance, because it’s simply not possible. As such, it’s impossible to prepare for everything that could happen.” At this point he was speaking mostly to himself, and he could barely feel the presence and heat coming off the arm of the dark-haired woman next to him, who leaned in to stare at the cards in silent contemplation.

 

When she began to speak, he nearly jumped out of his skin, several of the baubles on his horns tapping against his cheeks as though trying to bring him out of his stupor. “So for a reading like this… In all odds, it should refer to someone who has hit a stagnant point in their lives where they are bored or otherwise unimpressed by the state of their affairs. An event or a person will come to interrupt that, though the best course of action would be only to pursue this event with caution and care, even though the individual could in no way predict its arrival or the outcome.”

 

“Y-yes, that’s correct! See, you’ll get the hang of it before you know it!” Feigning pleasant surprise, Molly stifled away the feeling of dread that had washed over him ever time he drew the cards in this order. He didn’t _like_ not knowing when something was going to happen to him as they indicated, let alone something he couldn’t control.

 

She beamed at him, turning to stick her tongue out at her brother, who reached over without lifting his eyes from the page he was scanning and pinched her cheek hard enough to leave a red mark. “I should be going. Even without a reading for myself, this was still very interesting and insightful. How much for the book that arse is holding?”

 

The money was quickly exchanged and with a brief goodbye, Molly was once again alone in the shop. Without missing a beat, a gentle call from the kitchen area through the door to his left asked, “It’s like you told her. Don’t worry about things you can’t control.”

 

The only response Molly could manage was a quiet hum as he blew out the candle and shuffled his supplies back under the counter before turning his attention to the three cards still spread in front of him. Inhaling slowly, he huffed out a _fine, have it your way_ before returning them to the deck and shuffling. He cut the deck into quarters once, twice, three times. He asked, pointedly, _who or what._

 

The first card was The Hermit, tall and white-cloaked with a bright lantern. _Lesson and reward. Can also mean solitude._ The second was inverted: the Eight of Swords. _A person who sees themself as a victim and allows themself to fall subject to the will of others. Trying to become better but may also suffer from isolation as a result, as dictated by The Hermit._ The last was a regal looking figure on a throne: the King of Cups. _Warns that one should respond calmly to a crisis and act diplomatically. Addresses the importance of showing emotional restraint while guiding others with the advice or knowledge they seek._

 

When he shook himself from his stupor it was to Yasha’s steady hand on his shoulder. Across from him, the window had dried, the rain ended and the soft orange glow of the early evening settling on the floor. It was there that Frumpkin slept, stretched in the warm light. Molly stood, and the cat shifted, giving a toothy yawn and purring as he scooped the little ball of fur into his arms.

 

“What are you going to do with it? We can’t keep it, Mollymauk,” Yasha stated pointedly.

 

“I know that. He can stay here for tonight though, right? It wouldn’t hurt anything. I’m sure whoever owns him is looking.”

 

She shook her head in resignation as she pulled her gradiented hair from the tie and let it fall over her shoulders. “Fine, but we have to leave or we’re going to be late.”

 

With a soft smile of victory in her direction, Molly deposited their temporary resident on the counter, briefly chided him to ask that he not destroy anything in their absence and followed his friend out into the afternoon sun.

 

 


End file.
